


Skylark

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [8]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Asphyxiation, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, BDSM, Breathplay, Canal Boats, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Smut, eventually, gangsters in love, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 19:10:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20431001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: It's the mini break Alfie Solomons never fucking asked for. Three days on a narrowboat with Thomas Shelby. They're not alone.





	Skylark

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Guilt in this AU. 
> 
> (Roughly between seasons 3 and 4. Canon divergence. Alfie didn't betray Tommy to Section D).
> 
> And if you're just here for the smut...scroll down to the second half.

It’s not what Alfie expected to be doing on a miserably grey Tuesday afternoon, walking down a deserted canal towpath somewhere north of London, looking for a narrow boat. To be perfectly honest he’s never given narrowboats a second thought, has always preferred his feet firmly on dry land thank you very fucking much. So he is just going to chalk this up to experience, add it to the list of increasingly strange and out-of-character things he does because of one Thomas Michael Shelby.

It’s been weeks since he’s seen the man, which is just how things have panned out…hardly surprising given the month Tommy’s had; his son was kidnapped, he ended up back in a tunnel digging under Hampton Court Palace and his entire family has now been arrested. Even in their world, this counts as a pretty spectacularly fucked-up sequence of events. So when he received a cryptic message from Tommy this morning, via the landlord of one Prince of Wales public house somewhere in deepest, darkest Hertfordshire, Alfie reacted pretty quickly. Because in his experience, when things go to shit for Thomas Shelby, they really go to shit.

Three hours later, having left his car in the pub carpark (which incidentally, looks like a shit hole, what was Tommy even doing in here anyway?) he finds himself in conversation with the rather bemused looking landlord.

"Are you the Jewish gentleman?" the landlord asks, wiping a grimy looking towel around a beer glass. Alfie just looks down at his own attire, the hat, the tallit scarf, before replying, "Nah, I'm fuckin' Chinese, mate."

When the man doesn't respond, Alfie rolls his eyes heavenward and confirms, "Yes, I'm bloody Jewish. Now what was the fuckin' message?"

"It's just that he distinctly told me to pass this on to a Jewish gentleman," the landlord continues, apparently confused.

"You don't get a lot of Jews round here?" Alfie surmises.

The landlord shrugs.

"Let me guess. The fella who left the message. Flat cap. Face like razorblades. Stare as cold as hell."

"Aye, that's the one," the landlord confirms.

"And?" Alfie asks, patience wearing thin now.

"And he's on a boat named Skylark, about a mile in thatta direction," the man says, pointing out the back door of the pub with a flourish.

"Anything else?" Alfie asks

"No, think that was it. Looked like a bloody ghost he did."

Fuckin' brilliant. He's in the middle of nowhere and it's populated by idiots. What the hell is this all about Alfie wonders, as he strides out the back door, in the direction indicated. It’s late afternoon when he finds Skylark, moored on a fairly deserted stretch of canal almost a mile from the aforementioned pub. It would be a peaceful spot he supposes, surrounded as it is by willow trees and open fields on both sides, if it weren’t for the unholy amount of noise coming from inside the glossy black boat.

Alfie stops and braces himself before going any further, because whilst he didn’t really know what to expect from this impromptu little excursion – the message _S.O.S. T.S. Skylark_ hadn't given a lot away – he knows better than to expect anything straightforward where Tommy is concerned. This however, is most definitely _not_ what he had in mind. Not at all. He considers just turning around and heading straight back in the direction of his car…which would definitely be the sensible option…would no doubt save him a lot of grief…but he is clearly an old fool and the absolute racket coming from inside the boat seems to demand immediate attention, so he taps his cane on the side of the vessel before stepping onboard. 

He pauses on the deck (is it even called a deck if it’s a narrowboat?) and peers in through the small doors at one end to see a crimson faced toddler throwing the mother and father of all tantrums. I mean really, it sounds as if someone is being fucking _murdered_ onboard, and it’s not even like Alfie is making that comparison withouta significant level of relevant experience. He had no idea that one small child could make quite so much fucking noise. Around him, the boat is in utter disarray – there are clothes and pots and pans and pillows strewn about the narrow space and, more concerningly, no sign of any responsible adult.

Alfie has only seen Charlie once before, and then it was no more than a glimpse through a kitchen doorway – he was throwing a tantrum that time too – at which point Alfie had done the sensible thing and promptly left. That doesn’t appear to be an option this time, so he treads tentatively down the steps, leans his head into the boat and bellows, “oi, that’s enough!” just before a tin horse hits him squarely in the shin. It’s probably a risky tactic, the shouting, it certainly won’t win him any childcare awards, but his main concern right now, after his newly injured shin of course, is where the _fuck_ is Tommy? As it turns out, the shouting (or perhaps just the appearance of a loud, bearded hulk of a man in the small boat’s doorway) shocks Charlie into sudden and abject silence. And thank fucking _fuck_ for that.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t trust anyone else.”

At first Alfie can’t tell where the deep, rasping voice is coming from, the boat is so narrow and dark. But when his eyes have adjusted, he spots Tommy, lying prostrate on some sort of extremely uncomfortable looking bed, at the very far end of the boat. He makes his way down to the back, walking as quickly as he can past the toddler, until he reaches what presumably passes for a small bedroom – basically a bed that takes up the width of one end of the boat.

“My head,” Tommy says, sounding for all the world like he’s about to take his last breath. “Sorry. I couldn’t get Curly here quick enough.” 

Alfie sighs deeply, recognising the migraine symptoms immediately this time; the deathly pallor, clammy skin, clenched jaw. He can only imagine Tommy, alone and wary of the early symptoms, trying to figure out how to get someone here, to the back of fucking beyond, before he lost all ability to function. The memory of the last time he witnessed one of Tommy’s ferocious migraines is seared into Alfie’s brain for all the wrong reasons. He knows that the next few hours are going to be hell…

He also knows that Tommy is in no fit state to talk, although he can’t help but ask, “what were you thinking, love?”

“Had to get away. Had to think,” Tommy whispers. “They’re all gone, Alfie.”

“I know, love, I know,” is all Alfie says. Things look pretty fucked for Tommy’s family and now is not the time for platitudes.

As if on cue, Tommy curls up tightly and groans, gripping his hair in his hands. He’s lying with his feet towards the front of the boat, his head and arms hanging limply over the edge of the bed towards the interior and location of his extremely unhappy son. When the current spasm of pain has passed, he lifts his head slightly, barely opening his eyes and rasps, “Charlie, meet your uncle Alfie.” The effort of talking is clearly too much as he promptly throws up into a large saucepan placed at the foot of the bed, presumably for exactly that purpose. 

“Fucking hell, Tommy,” Alfie sighs, perching on the end of the bed and stroking his back firmly. He’s torn between laying into Tommy right this second for his abject stupidity in getting himself into this situation and hauling the bloody idiot into a long-overdue and apparently much-needed hug, vomit be damned. It would seem that neither of these is an option right now, as the two year old currently gawping at him from the floor appears to be seriously considering letting rip again. Alfie can’t let that happen – it’s painful enough to his own ears – it must be absolute torture for Tommy in his current state. Instead he rubs his fingers through Tommy’s hair, presses a kiss to the back of his head and resigns himself to what will no doubt be a miserable fucking 24 hours.

“I got it Tommy,” he says gently. “I’ll take care of your boy, but that means you’re on your own love. What do you need?”

“Morphine,” Tommy whispers. “Coat pocket.” At least he had the good sense not to dose up on that stuff before help arrived, Alfie muses. Charlie has started whimpering and is now shuffling slowly towards where his father has collapsed.

“Dadda,” he sniffs, “Dadda.” Right now, Alfie would rather lead a battalion of angry, under-fed men into battle than deal with this snivelling child. He can’t help but feel angry at Charlie's clear indifference to his father’s suffering, but he guesses it's normal. How old is he, two? And so Alfie moves slowly, musters patience he didn't now he had and says as calmly as he can,

“Daddy’s not feeling very well right now Charlie, so you and me, we are gonna have to get acquainted. Alright?”

Charlie looks completely through him towards Tommy and just cries louder, “Dadda, daddy…” Alfie looks upwards, raising his eyebrows in exasperation, and wonders whether some higher power thinks this is acceptable_…_thinks that putting a Jewish gangster in sole charge of a small human is fucking _funny_.That is the only explanation Alfie can come up with. It’s not like he hasn’t given the universe good reason to punish him. It must be divine retribution. He gathers his thoughts for a moment, scratching his beard, whilst he gazes sadly at Tommy’s prone form, before deciding that he is absolutely _not_ going to let a fucking _toddler_ get the better of him…or make Tommy’s misery worse. He stands up and scoops Charlie up in both arms, depositing him firmly onto his good hip.

“Right lad, Daddy just needs a few things, yeah?” he says, finding Tommy’s coat and rooting around in the pocket for the tell-tale glass bottle. He throws it onto the blankets next to Tommy, then finds a flask of water, which he places at the foot of the bed.

“Saucepan, we need another saucepan,” he mumbles, and Charlie obligingly points one chubby arm out towards where a pot lies on its side on the kitchen floor. Alfie slides it over to the bed with his foot, next to the water.

“Right love,” he says to Tommy, “dark and quiet, right? There's morphine, water and a new pot to throw up in. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do. Now me and your boy are gonna go take a little walk outside. You rest up. We’ll be back later, won’t we Charlie?” He turns to the boy with a look that he hopes is pitched somewhere between friendly and intimidating, but is probably the latter…there’s not much call for friendly in his business. Charlie returns Alfie’s look with a cold, hard glare that would rival his father’s. He looks distinctly unimpressed, but is at least keeping quiet.

“Thank you,” Tommy whispers, “be a good boy Charlie,” he adds, not looking up to witness the stand-off developing before him. Alfie leans down to cup his face with one hand, thumbing over his cheek and wishing with all his might that he could just curl up next to Tommy and look after him. But that’s not to be.

–––

Alfie waits until they’re a good few yards down the towpath, away from the boat, before he puts Charlie down on the ground. He kneels down painfully in front of the boy, fixing him with a long, hard stare. Charlie is apparently completely un-phased, staring defiantly straight back at Alfie through big blue eyes. He’s his father’s son alright. 

“Now, I don’t know what all that noise was about back there, mate,” Alfie starts, pointing back at the boat with his cane, “but we ain’t gonna have no more of that shouting. Alright?” 

Charlie looks vaguely petulant, but then reaches a hand out towards Alfie and grips a handful of beard in one small, clammy fist. 

“Ouch,” Alfie grumbles, “that’s my beard, mate. Can’t pull that off.”

“Bear.” Charlie states.

“_Beard_, not bear” Alfie snorts, amused, despite himself.

“Bear,” Charlie repeats, deadpan.

“You like bears?”

Charlie appears to consider this question as though it were _incredibly_ important before nodding, decisively, just once.

“Right, well you let go of my beard, and I will tell you a story about a bear. How’s that?” Alfie says. Because he’s nothing if not a good negotiator.

Charlie lets go and Alfie pushes himself back up onto his feet. They proceed to amble down the towpath, Charlie holding onto Alfie’s cane rather than his proffered hand, whilst Alfie recites an ancient Russian fairytale about a bear and a wolf. The talking seems to work for both of them, Charlie relaxes – even giggles eventually at the hairy man’s rambling tale – whilst Alfie finds himself successfully distracted from Tommy’s pain for a little while at least. Taking care of the kid is his job right now, so that’s what he’s gonna do. 

They stop to a rest after a while, because Alfie can see that Charlie’s little legs are getting tired. This could be a problem, because with his bad leg and cane, Alfie realises that he isn’t going to get far carrying a toddler. He is pondering his options here when Charlie puts his arms in the air and says, “carry,” as if he can actually read Alfie’s fuckin’ mind. He’s has always through there was something rather spooky about little kids. He explains, patiently, that he can’t carry anyone because of his bad leg, and lifts his cane up to illustrate the point. “Stick,” Charlie says earnestly, grabbing ahold of it.

“Well, yeah, it’s kind of a stick,” Alfie admits, “but it helps me to walk, which is good, innit?” Which leads to them hunting in the grass verge for a suitable stick for Charlie. This takes some time as it happens, because Charlie rejects all those sticks that don’t have a crooked branch at the top like the handle of Alfie’s cane. This kid must be sorely lacking in role-models Alfie thinks, whilst being secretly flattered that Charlie wants to emulate him in any way at all. When they finally find an appropriate piece of wood Charlie seems content to walk again – wielding his “cane” with surprising authority and mimicking the way Alfie walks – even attempting a small limp – which is taking the fuckin’ piss frankly, but makes him smile nonetheless.

The sky is darkening by the time they find themselves back at the Prince of Wales pub. Alfie realises that he’s pretty darn hungry, and guesses that the little man must be too. “You want some grub?” he asks the boy, who nods vehemently in response. After a few tense words with the barmaid, and subsequently the landlord, Alfie finds that children are indeed allowed in the bar thank you very fucking much. Before long, he and Charlie are sharing a steak pie and mash and the boy proves that he is not entirely his father’s son afterall…wolfing down a significant portion of the meal, even if much of it does end up on his face….hands…clothes…head. By they time they leave there is also a large puddle on the floor under Charlie’s chair, which Alfie may or may not think serves the ungracious barmaid right.

The walk back to the boat is considerably more problematic. At some point he ends up sacrificing his tallit scarf to preserve Charlie’s modesty, once it becomes clear that they are going to have to abandon his trousers and underwear due to the under-table-puddle incident. He can only hope that god doesn’t strike him down for this somewhat alternative use of his prayer shawl, although frankly that’s the least of his sins, so he probably shouldn’t worry too much.

A few hundred yards down the path it becomes obvious that Charlie is tired and is not going to make the journey back to the boat on his own two feet and so, leg be damned, Alfie ends up carrying the kid the rest of the way. It’s ungainly and undignified, limping along with a hunk of child on one shoulder and two sticks in the other hand (because apparently Charlie _really_ fuckin’ likes that stick now, and is not prepared to see it abandoned) . Who knew two-year-olds weighed so bloody much anyway?

The only positive is that by the time they are back at the Skylark, Charlie is a leaden weight on his shoulder, clearly sound asleep after his evening excursion. Which means that Alfie is able to lay him down on one of the thin bunks just inside the door, cover him with a blanket, and go to check on Tommy.He fastens the bolts on the doors first, just in case, because they might be in the middle of bloody nowhere, but you can never be too careful.

It’s suspiciously quiet at the far end of the boat. Alfie pulls the little curtain that separates the bedroom from the rest of the boat back and pokes his head inside to see how the land lies. Miraculously, Tommy appears to be sound asleep. Mind you, the morphine bottle is half empty, so it’s not too much of a surprise. Alfie sits down gently beside him and kicks his boots off. It’s only about 8 o’clock but he is dog tired himself. He takes his trousers and waistcoat off, then shuffles back on the bed and considers whether to make Tommy look more comfortable. He settles for removing his trousers, which rouses some grumbling and causes Tommy’s hands to go up protectively over his head, but is otherwise easy enough. The bed is hard but a decent enough width for two, and it’s been too long since they’ve lain together in any sort of capacity, so Alfie isn’t going to complain about it now. Maybe in the morning, when his back is killing him, but right now he is actually beyond caring too much, he’s just relieved that Tommy isn’t in a complete fucking mess, looks vaguely peaceful at least.

He wonders briefly whether Tommy will be cross in the morning, if Charlie sees them in the same bed. But the lad’s only two, so he draws the curtain that separates the ‘bedroom’ from the rest of the boat and decides to risk it, fairly confident that he can explain it away to his new little friend. He falls asleep soon afterwards, staring contentedly at Tommy, thinking how unusual it is to feel the water rocking beneath them, but also how peaceful it is. How remote.

–––

He has no idea what time it is when he’s woken by Tommy moaning feebly next to him. Either the morphine’s worn off, or he’s having a nightmare. Quite possibly both. He wraps his arms around him, shushing and whispering platitudes, stroking his hair. Tommy feels warm, but not sweltering, and mutters for some time. Alfie can’t make out much of what he’s saying, beyond Charlie’s name and the general panicked tone of voice, but he seems to respond well enough to Alfie’s whispered assurances and calms back down after a while. Alfie pulls back the curtain and checks to see if Charlie himself has been disturbed, but it appears not. Bloody hell, since when did Alfie Solomons start checking on sleeping children? He stares at the roof of the boat and can't help but wonder how he has ended up here, on the mini-holiday he never fucking asked for.

The following day is a challenge... Tommy is curled up or passed out for most of it, and so Alfie is left in sole charge of a boat, his sick lover and a feisty two-year old. Again. He manages to keep everyone alive, so considers it a success overall. 

By the evening, Tommy is sitting up, drinking a mug of tea and staring at Charlie and “Alfie Bear” as they share a bedtime story. Alfie is embellishing it wildly and adding silly voices; he's nearly hoarse from the amount of talking he’s done today, which is saying something. His back is aching, his leg hurts and he’s burnt his finger frying eggs. He’s helped Tommy to shave (because the vain bastard couldn’t let it go for one fucking day), collected wood for the stove and even successfully dealt with a tantrum over supper… Charlie was not willing to accept religious differences as a reason to forgo bacon.He is, frankly, shattered. But somehow it all seems worth it when he looks down the boat and sees the soft smile on Tommy’s face. It suits him, Alfie thinks. The smile and the messy hair and the uncharacteristic woolly jumper.

They spend the evening playing cards, Tommy feeling mostly better but still fatigued. Noises bother him more than usual and his skin is sensitive. He is distracted, lost inside his head for much of the time…irritable and grumpy and not at all comfortable with being touched too much at the moment. But none of that stops Alfie from wanting. It’s fucking ridiculous what happens to him when he’s around this man. He blames the jumper.

It’s later that night, when they are nestled under the blankets in the small bedspace, the remains of a fire in the stove to keep them warm, that Alfie says it. He hasn’t planned it, doesn’t think about it too much, isn’t even sure if Tommy is awake right now to hear him. Much like the last time he said it. But it feels so safe here, just them…and a sleeping kid of course…and he just wants Tommy to know. Subconsciously perhaps. Tommy’s eyes are closed, his brow furrowed slightly, in memory of the pain most likely, and Alfie’s arm is resting over his hips. “I love you Thomas,” he whispers, stroking the man’s cheek. He doesn’t need a response. Doesn’t get one either, beyond an irritable flinch away from the touch. Typical fucking Thomas. Alfie goes to sleep.

–––

When dawn breaks on Thursday, Alfie struggles to recall where he is. The rocking motion unnerves him, until his brain catches up with itself. Pretty quickly his body catches up too, his cock a rigid line against his stomach as he turns to admire the man lying next to him. He should let him sleep, probably, but he can’t help it, pent up desire courses through him and he leans down to press a kiss to Tommy’s cheek, his temple, his chin and finally his lips. Tommy rouses slowly, tossing his head from side to side distractedly, eyes still closed, neck stretching out invitingly … until Alfie captures him in a deep, bruising kiss that locks him still. Pretty soon his hands are running all over Tommy’s body, squeezing and stroking the firm flesh, reaching under his torso, pulling him off the mattress and holding him close. He wants Tommy. Badly. It’s been too many weeks and too much has happened. He knows Tommy has the weight of the world on his shoulders right now and he wants to take it away, just for a little while.

Tommy is still only half awake when Alfie flips him over onto his stomach, stuffing two pillows under his hips. He groans half-heartedly, managing to lift himself up to assist before Alfie settles his weight on top of him.

“Fuck me, Alfie,” he whispers groggily, hips bucking up to meet Alfie’s taut stomach. “Fucking fuck me.”

“Feeling better, eh?" Alfie chuckles. "You’ll have to be quiet, Thomas. Very quiet,” he adds, already reaching for the oil, because the chances of Tommy _not_ getting fucked this morning are precisely zero.

Tommy moans in frustration, remembering that Charlie is only a few yards away, on the other side of a flimsy curtain. “Fuck, Alfie. I can’t.”

“I know, being quiet’s not your strong point is it, darling?”

“He’ll wake.”

“Not if you’re a good boy, Tommy.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can, love.”

“I can’t, Alfie,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face.

“I’m a bit tired of hearing that, Thomas. Do you want my cock or not?”

“Yes,” he moans, exhaling in frustration, “of course I fucking do!”

“Then let me help you.”

“What?”

“You trust me, Thomas?”

“Yes, I trust you.”

With that Alfie places one hand over Tommy’s mouth, palm flat against his lips, as he pulls Tommy’s head back into his chest. Tommy immediately tenses beneath him, and it fucking turns Alfie on, the unsure flutter of Tommy’s breath against his hand. He wants more…wants him unsettled…and so he moves his thumb and forefinger just slightly, pinching Tommy’s nose shut, cutting off his air.With that, Tommy arches his back upwards and grabs at Alfie’s forearm, tries to pull him away.

“Just relax, Tommy, I’ll take care of you,” Alfie whispers, right into his ear. He’s counting in his head, working out just how many seconds Tommy can go without air before the panic sets in. He releases the pinch just in time to feel Tommy drag in a huge breath through his nose – Alfie’s palm remains firmly locked over his lips so that no real sound can escape. 

“There you go love,” Alfie says, unable to keep the satisfied smirk out of his voice. “See, you can stay lovely and quiet with a bit of help. Hmmm?” Tommy hums against his hand, unable to voice a response, but managing to sound fucked off nonetheless.

“Ready? And again…” Alfie warns, pinching Tommy’s nostrils once more…but Tommy hasn’t headed the warning… hasn’t taken the time to inhale before his breath is cut off again. Alfie notices, of course, waiting a few seconds – enough to get Tommy’s blood pumping – but releasing the pinch far sooner than last time; he doesn’t want to scare him off. 

“What’s the point in warning you if you don’t take a fucking breath, eh?” he whispers gently into Tommy’s other ear this time. He tuts, once, twice, but his voice is soft. He’s fumbling with the oil, slicking himself up, giving Tommy’s arse a cursory coating too. Should probably spend more time on this, but, well, fuck it, this ain't the lap of luxury and he doesn't know how much time they have before the kid wakes.

“Let’s try that again, shall we, love? When I say _ready_, you _breathe in, _got it? Ready?”

Tommy is quick to inhale this time – he’s a fast learner – and as Alfie cuts off his breath he pushes into him, slickly, in one firm motion. He can feel the strangled moan against his hand, Tommy straining to take him, arching up even further and pulling on the arm that is clamped to his face. It’s futile, Alfie is strong and has no intention of releasing Tommy’s mouth, he knows the man can’t keep fucking quiet with a cock in his arse and he isn’t risking Charlie putting an end to this long-overdue fuck. It feels so bloody good, being inside him again, that Alfie just stays there, pressed in as far as he can go, feeling Tommy struggle to relax around him and savouring the sensation. He’s concentrating so hard on not coming on the spot that he has to remind himself, after several seconds, to let Tommy draw breath again. 

“There you go, love,” he says, slackening his grip but not moving his hips at all, just pressing hard into Tommy, holding him still.

“You’ve got my cock now, haven’t you, sweetie?” Alfie murmurs, humming as he feels Tommy clench around him. "No mistaking that, I bet." He knows just how to use his voice to get Tommy riled up, “so…the thing is…I don’t really need to do anything else. You are gonna get _yourself_ off… just like this. OK?” Tommy shakes his head, at least as much as he can with Alfie’s hand clamped over his mouth like a vice.

“Sure you are, love. I’m gonna hold you down like this, with my cock, and you’re gonna do the rest. All. By. Yourself.”

Alfie knows he could make this easier, could put one hand down between Tommy’s body and the pillows, take him in hand, stroke him firmly. But where's the sport in that? The real fun is in making Tommy whimper, making him moan…which, ok, isn’t really an option this morning, but he can sure as hell make him blush, make him desperate, make him bloody _work_ for it.

“Ready, Tommy?” Alfie asks, listening for the telltale inhalation before he pinches Tommy’s nose shut yet again. “Gonna have to move darling, or this is gonna take a very long time,” he sneers, feeling Tommy still beneath him. “Move those pretty hips, eh?” he coaxes, because Tommy is rigid again, straining against the lack of air, but steadfastly failing to move, to seek out the friction Alfie knows he needs. When he feels Tommy’s nostrils flutter in his hand, trying vainly to pull air in, he lets go, feeling the man’s relief and letting his head slump down towards the mattress this time. He lets him rest a moment, watching his back heave.

He presses several kisses to the back of Tommy’s neck, he can feel the sweat beading there already. He moves his cock just slightly, pulls out a fraction before pressing back in, forcing him into the pillows once again, just reminding him that he’s pinned. It’s a power struggle, one they both know Alfie is going to win, because at the end of the day Tommy is a needy little bastard. That doesn’t mean Alfie can’t enjoy watching him _fight_ the impulse to do as he’s told. Hell, he can _feel_ him fighting it, every muscle and sinew wound so tight against the desire to move that it feels like something is going to snap. Alfie forces himself in even harder, listening as the bed creaks under the increased pressure. He uses the hand over Tommy’s mouth to pull his head into his chest once more…the soft stubble on the back of his head like velvet against Alfie’s shoulder.

“Come on Tommy, I know you wanna come. On three, I’m gonna pinch again, and very soon the lack of oxygen is gonna make your cock throb, and your pretty little head spin.” He feels Tommy trying to choke out a sound, but it’s lost against the palm of his hand, and so Alfie counts, slowly to three… waits for the in-breath… blocks Tommy’s airway once more. 

Tommy’s defiantly still for several long seconds, they both are, the only motion the gentle rocking of the boat against the water. "You don't get to breathe again until you start moving Tommy,” Alfie warns, voice menacingly calm, because he's bored of this now, impatient for Tommy to comply. Sound stutters in Tommy’s throat, trapped there by Alfie’s hand, unable to escape. His eyes are wide, his skin flushing more with every second that passes.

“Just stop fighting it and move, silly boy,” Alfie says, more urgently now, because he’s beginning to wonder whether the fucker is stupid enough to risk passing out before he gives in. Eventually Tommy has no choice but to relent…Alfie feels the small movement, a slight rock of the hips that quickly escalates until Tommy is rutting into the pillows beneath him, desperate to earn his breath back, nostrils flaring furiously when Alfie releases his grip. 

And once Tommy’s started moving, he can’t stop. His hips twitch fiercely between the pillows and Alfie’s rock hard weight. He moans his resignation into Alfie’s palm, a desperate, stifled sound that barely troubles the air around them but Alfie hears loud and clear. It's the sound of Tommy giving in and _fuck_ if it doesn't make Alfie hot. It’s fascinating, enthralling to watch Tommy writhe in the tight space, to feel him buck his hips and grind against Alfie’s body. The silence is like a physical pressure on them, a necessity that just increases the tension, the passion, the urgency. Alfie clenches his fingers to restrict Tommy’s nose once more, holding his own breath at the same time, waiting until he can see white spots against his eyelids before granting Tommy the gift of air. He repeats it every minute or so, restricting and releasing Tommy’s breath in a way that he can tell by the force of his movements is driving him higher each time.

He’s set Tommy a seemingly impossible task, he knows, to make himself come with barely any room to move, with no sound, with no hands … with no air. But Tommy hasn’t failed him yet, has always risen to Alfie’s challenges, like a wanton whore when he gets going. Which is exactly what turns Alfie on…how far Tommy will push himself, will give in…just for him.

Each time Alfie squeezes his hand over Tommy’s face he can feel it winding him tighter, until finallyTommy reaches out, tries to take himself in hand, to finish the job. “No, no, no, Tommy,” Alfie tuts, dragging Tommy's hand away and pinning it to the mattress next to his head, fingers entwined.

“You fucking _work_ for it, darling,” he snarls, and Tommy goddam _squeals_ into his hand, the high-pitched sound of frustration only barely held in by Alfie's palm. And _that’s_ the ticket – Tommy’s desperation fucking _does_ it for Alfie – his dick is so hard it honest to god _hurts._

When he blocks Tommy’s nose once more Alfie feels legs kicking out against it, Tommy twitching erratically, frustration and need radiating with every flick of his hips as he struggles with every ounce of his being to get that friction, to just fucking come.

“Such a good boy, like a little jack-rabbit ain’t ya?” Alfie growls as he pulls Tommy’s head into his chest again with that one, smothering hand. He wraps his other arm under Tommy's ribs, holding their bodies together, feeling Tommy thrust frantically, over and over, his movement restricted by Alfie's solid mass. “Trying so hard, eh?” he whispers, revelling in the sweat, the need, the fucking divine, shameless mess that is Tommy Shelby right now.

"Ready?" he asks, as he pinches the air off yet again, watching Tommy's eyes close, his cheeks redden, his hips snapping ever more frantically. He can feel his frustration, close to anger now, and knows he needs help to tip over, a final push. Alfie is counting the seconds, holding him hard, waiting as long as he dares until he can feel Tommy’s chest heave and stutter in one final, futile attempt to draw breath before he shatters, convulsing violently around Alfie in great, silent spasms.

By some miracle Alfie manages to hold still against Tommy’s orgasm, whispering, ”shhhhh,” into his ear until the writhing finally stops. Only then does he deign to move himself, thrusting into Tommy’s trembling tightness, sliding himself in and out and giving in to the intensity of his own desire. He fucks Tommy hard for a few short moments until he is spilling forcefully into the beautiful, spent disaster beneath him.

It takes several minutes for them to come back down. Tommy is still on his stomach, gasping, dragging air in through his nose and mouth in great shuddering breaths, eyes wet, mouth agape. Alfie is holding his weight on his arms, trying his best not to make Tommy's breathing any more difficult by collapsing on him. He flops down heavily to one side, stroking Tommy’s back idly. “Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, blinking at the ceiling a few times before he looks down at him. 

You alright love?” he asks. Tommy stares at him, wide eyed. Alfie loves the way he looks when he’s come – flushed and dishevelled and slightly amazed.

“Yeah,” Tommy answers, his voice breathy and hoarse. They gaze at each other for a few long moments until Alfie can’t help himself, just has to ask, “why d’you trust me so much, hmm?”Tommy responds with a slow blink, like he’s unsure what Alfie means.

“With that, what we just did,” Alfie says… “and with him,” he adds, flipping his hand towards the far end of the boat, to where Charlie is, thankfully, still sleeping.

Tommy pushes his bottom lip out, shrugs his shoulders slightly, staring down at Alfie’s chest and grazing one nipple with his thumb. “Dunno really. Guess I must love you too,” he says and promptly closes his eyes.

PLEASE VISIT ME ON TUMBLR TO SEE THE AMAZING ART DEF-NOT CREATED FOR THIS FIC:

https://www.mintjamsblog.tumblr.com/skylark 

**Author's Note:**

> That's a lot of fluff for me. Because lord knows we need some with season 5 upon us. Would love to hear your thoughts, as ever, feedback is my fuel lovely people!


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